The Gripping Beast

By Torgeir Hansson

Eirik Hjaltison barely escapes his father’s enemies during a vicious attack on the family farm. Soon he finds himself in the heartland of Europe, and up against far greater forces than he can take on alone. But there is a bright-eyed Egyptian girl who can sew wounds, and seven men from the North who come along for some plunder, and to shop for fancy boots at the local markets. They follow the dark trail of the Medieval Slave Trade, to avenge the family and take back their honor, and are quickly embroiled in a struggle to the death. Within inches from final vindication, Eirik’s pride proves his greatest enemy, and he faces a final struggle that will take every ounce of his wit and every fiber of his strength, to save everything he holds dear in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torgeir Hansson
• Release date: May 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311495105

Torgeir Hansson

Torgeir Hansson was born in Oslo, Norway in 1958. He grew up on the west side of Oslo, mostly with a fishing rod in his hand. After a short stint at the University of Oslo he left for San Francisco in 1981 and never looked back. He has written extensively for a variety of promotional and entertainment purposes. The Gripping Beast is his debut novel, and has already garnered positive reviews from early readers, for its immediacy and unconventional approach to the subject matter.He wrote The Gripping Beast to renew the viking novel; to reshape the often fanciful stories into something much closer to the ground, and in his own words "to rid the genre of pet dragons, fur bikinis, and magic helmets." The Gripping Beast is among the first to bring a realistic and hard-boiled style to the Medieval novel. It puts the reader inside the boots of a young Norseman, and face to face with Medieval Europe such as it was.Torgeir Hansson lives in Sausalito, California.

Book preview

THE BLEEDING STONE

It was cold like no one could remember. In the streams, the water ran black like squid’s ink, and the fields were buried under snow deep as a man was tall. It was the moon of Mörsugur, when the sun left the world and took the hungry, the old, and the weak with it. Life hid from the cold, and you had to find it underground, like in a bear’s den or a hollow tree, where it was away from the long fingers of winter. Yet it was the same life, once you found it, strong like it had been since the first dawn.

The great hall at Kaupang was up on the hill above the other houses, and on a bright day you could see the islands at the far edge of the sea from where it stood. It was the biggest hall, or hov as they said, on the lower coast, over forty steps long and half as wide. They had tarred it so many times that it was nearly black, and now when it was night it looked more like a great rock left there by a giant than a house built by men. Yet it was the people of Vestfold who had built it, from the thickest pine trunks they could dredge from the Fareidr Lake, and with staves of heavy beech for the walls. The roof was held on oak poles from the middle of the groves, where the trees reached upwards to find the sun. They carried the gables high above the ground, so the carved dragonheads could see all around to ward the house from roaming spirits.

Already the fire inside had melted the snow around the smoke hole in the roof. Scores of crows and ravens crawled around it to suck in every breath of warmth there was. They cawed and scraped their claws on the wood shingles, and beat their wings so you could hear it down on the ground. The people were glad the birds had come, and that there were so many. They told that the gods were with them for the midwinterblot, the great blood offering. It was a hard winter, and everyone was in need of a good feast.

There were torches to light the way to the broad oak door, and the women were quick to get the children inside. The men unhitched the sleds and put the horses two together in the stalls they had cut in the snowdrift, and laid thick blankets over their backs so they would not die in the freeze. With hay to eat and stand on, there was no need to tie them. The horses held their bodies close and breathed in each others’ faces for warmth and fellowship.

Inside, the people of Kaupang gathered with those from Tunsberg, Hof, and even Revetal. Some had been in their sleds for two days from the far valleys up the River Nauma, and were still blue in the face from it. Man-sized logs burned between the rocks in the fire pit, and the people stood near the flames to get the chill out of their bones. Their fur coats hung on pegs along the back wall, and now you could see their blouses and tunics of the brightest colors. Many were in silk or velvet, some of them from as far as Baghdad and Samarkand. The arm rings of the women crawled with dragons, horses, dogs and snakes. The men had belts with silver coins and studs, and pins of silver and gold on their shirts. Both the men and women were washed clean, and the men had neat beards and lines of black soot, or kohl as they said, around the edges of their eyes. There was not a hair out of place on anyone, and the old men had even plucked their ears and eyebrows to look as young as they could.

When they led the cow through the crowd, they touched her sides and spoke their thanks and blessings to her. It was short but fat and well kept, and the creamy hide shone in the firelight. There was not a spot on it. Blue ribbons hung from the horns down over the cheeks. The old people looked at it and said it was like Auðhumla, the cow from the frozen dawn of time that licked the first ice and melted it. That is how Bure father of Bor, who was in turn father of Odin, came free from the frost and began the world.

In the middle of the long wall across from the door was the bleeding stone, and they brought the cow to it. The priestess Øyvor stood there with Hjalti and his wife Gunnhild, who held their new boy in her arms. Øyvor took the clan ring from the stone. She slid it over the sleeve and past the elbow of her right arm. The iron was old and made grey streaks on the white linen. She turned to Hjalti and Gunnhild and spoke in a low voice.

I wear the clan ring now, so speak the truth. Is your child strong so he will live? Does he have all his fingers and toes, and two stones between his legs?

He is strong and has everything. He will live, Hjalti said.

You will not put him out this winter? I cannot speak over him if you think you will put him out.

No. We have food and milk for him. We will not put him out. Gunnhild looked down at the child and then at Øyvor. Give him his name. You can speak over him, I swear it.

Good, said Øyvor. Let us begin.

Øyvor took the knife from the bleeding stone and drew it out of the sheath. There were runes inlaid in silver on the blade; you could see them when she raised the knife above her head and spoke to everyone. The people hushed each other and came forward so they could see.

"My friends! The sun has turned and is coming back, and soon there will be new life. My son Guttorm brings this cow so she can die with the old year. With this blood, Dellingr will bring the day, Sol will bring the sun, Thor will bring the rain, and Frøy will bring everything we want. This is why we are together on this day. Let the old die. Frøy! Let every sorrow, every strife, and every worry die. Til árs ok fridar!"

The men and women in the hall lowered their cups and spoke back to her.

"Let the old die! To a good year, and peace!"

Øyvor walked to the cow that smelled the planks with its bristled nose. It shook its head when the ribbons brushed its ears. Øyvor leaned over the neck of the beast and took hold of the nostrils with her left hand. When the head came up she made a deep gash across the cow’s throat and cut the veins there, and was sure to dig deep enough to slash the windpipe. The cow’s eyes rolled back in its skull, so they were white. It stood without a sound while Øyvor gathered the blood in her bowl. Then the forelegs gave, and the cow fell, kicking and scraping its hooves along the floor. Then it heaved, coughed blood through the gash and was still. Its tongue lay on the planks like an island in a red sea.

Øyvor took the bundle of birch twigs from the bleeding stone and dipped it in the bowl. With high sweeps of the bundle, she walked among the people in the hall and sprinkled their faces and clothes with the blood. All were still when the drops stained them, and they made wishes for the New Year without speaking. Then they turned to their neighbors and wished them wealth and happiness. Even men who had strife between them raised their cups to each other in truce and wished each other good things.

The little boy lay in his carrier made of fox fur held shut by leather tresses. He wrinkled his nose when the blood from Øyvor’s bundle speckled his face. She dipped her finger in the blood and drew the sign of Thor’s Hammer on his forehead. She held him up so everyone could see him.

Say welcome to this child! Thor will know him by his name Eirik, and Odin will give him a name of his own. I speak my blessings and hope he will live long among us.

The crowd shouted their greetings to Eirik. He opened his grey and blue eyes and looked back at the noise. Now Hjalti stepped forward to speak, but everyone had turned their minds to food and drink and were keen to begin the fun.

My friends! He tried to speak over the rising din in the hall. My friends! He shouted now.

Briefly the talk died down, and he waited for a good few shiny faces to turn his way.

This my friends, is my son. He is mine, and he is ours. May he bring us luck and silver and good years!

Again the crowd roared his name, now with laughter in their voices, and their shouts of welcome rang between the walls of the hov. They raised their cups to Hjalti and Eirik, and drank with open mouths. Beer and mead ran over their chins, so their lips shone in the light. Hjalti took his cup and poured beer over Eirik’s mouth. It made him cough.

All in Kaupang knew him as Eirik Hjaltison now. He was twelve weeks old.

The laughter and the shouting were louder already. There had been no food yet because they waited to eat until after the blot, and they knew that the drink had a better bite on an empty belly. The girls came with the pitchers, and the din rose quickly. The men laughed in the faces of each other as they told jokes and stories from the last year. The women stood together in knots to speak about more earthly things under the lanterns that hung from the roof beams, but they too drank as if they meant it. Almost all were good and drunk by the time they sat down to eat.

The tables stood in squares around the fire pit. The young people and those from the smallest farms knew to sit towards the walls while Øyvor sat with her son Guttorm and his men by a table under the bleeding stone. Everyone drank mead and ale quickly, and helped each other fill up from the forest of pitchers that stood on the tables.

Eirik was at his mother’s teat while the meat roasted in the fire pit behind her back. The girls brought tubs of herring with onions, and platters of smoked salmon and dill. The herring had lain in salt since the fall, and they had washed the salt out with milk and water for two days. It tasted sweet now, and almost better than when it was fresh. The salmon was lightly smoked over alder, and shone with juice. Rounds of flatbread the size of shields lay everywhere, and they broke off pieces of it to scoop the herring and salmon. When they had their fill of the fish the girls brought bowls of steaming pork and beef, and Hjalti took Eirik, so Gunnhild could eat and get some time away from him. Many people came to look at Eirik and touched his head while they spoke with them.

Hjalti heard Earl Guttorm behind him.

I see you find a way to take the floor at every blot, Hjalti. Soon maybe you will bring the cow too, the Earl said in his flat way.

Hjalti turned to Guttorm, who stood there with three of his men. They had daggers in their belts, and their cream tunics set off the deep yellow of Guttorm’s. His breeches were narrow and bound with leather strips, and his boots shone dark yellow like his tunic. He was built like the hov he stood in, sturdy, tall, and broad-footed, with hair nearly as dark as the walls. It glinted red where the light was on it, and his full lips and beefy nose framed a mouth that smiled more than his narrow eyes.

There was nothing meant by it, Guttorm. I spoke with your mother about this. We both thought he would be too old at the spring blot, Hjalti said.

Guttorm nodded slowly and looked at his men.

Maybe so, but he is ours, as you say. Maybe one day I will get more help from him than his kin cares to dole out.

Hjalti got a look from his wife and kept his easy cheer. Hjalti’s tablemates were watching now.

Maybe so, Guttorm, but born free, always free, as we also say.

We will see. He is a handsome boy, much too handsome to be yours Hjalti.

That is one of the many blessings Frøya has bestowed on him. By that, we know he is not yours either.

So, I am ugly? Guttorm’s words came slowly.

Guttorm, I am saying you look nothing like a baby.

Then I am slow to understand your words? Guttorm leaned over the table and took a piece of pork from Hjalti’s plate. He chewed while he kept his eyes on him.

Hjalti turned to Guttorm with his broadest smile. You are not slow with anything, Guttorm. You are quick like a baby to the tit.

Guttorm’s laughter died faster than Hjalti’s, and faster yet than the roil from the guests around Hjalti’s table.

You are a funny man, he said, and tossed the half-eaten meat on Hjalti’s platter. He gave him a look before he turned his back and walked away with the creamy ones trailing in his wake.

Hjalti was half off the bench before Gunnhild got hold of him. She pulled him back down.

Have a drink, husband, she said. You need to cool your head.

She took the meat from Hjalti’s platter and ate it. Now it is gone. Cool your head.

You want to sit still for this? Hjalti’s eyes shot at her.

Yes I do, and so do you. Gunnhild put her arm over Hjalti’s shoulder. Her long fingers were in his hair while she held Eirik close to her body with the other hand. So do you.

Hjalti dug inside himself to let it go. He emptied his cup and fought to smile again. Soon others came with more friendly words, and nothing else broke the peace of the hov that night. They turned back to the drinking, and Hjalti and the men shouted to the maidens to fill their cups and bowls as quick as they emptied them. They told stories, danced, and drank with both arms until morning.

When they left the hov their horse Fysti was alone by the wall outside. Hjalti got the blanket off him and put it around Gunnhild and Eirik. He sat behind them in the sled and let Fysti have it with the reins.

Hey! Go! Go Fysti!

The horse shot down the road, and Gunnhild squealed.

Hjalti! Slower! I’m losing the baby!

They were screaming, off their heads. Peals of laughter trailed behind the sled as it barreled down the frozen path.

They slowed down when Fysti began to foam from the sides, so Hjalti let him trot and find the way home over the path across the fields and then through the trees where the snow was softer. When the sled jerked over the sharp bank down to the farm road it nearly spilled, and Hjalti had all he could to throw his weight over the side to steady it. He gripped the reins and tried to look sober when Gunnhild turned and put her eyes on him. Then she laughed and shook her head.

The sun came up. The ice on the trees sparkled in the light and made their eyes squint. When they came home they got Fysti inside and fell into bed. Svala their daughter of almost three winters was awake and climbed on top of them, but was angry that they would not play with her or tell her stories. When she saw that they were out like candles she crawled in by Gunnhild, but Eirik slept there in his carrier. She climbed over her father’s shoulder and wormed herself under his arm where it was warm. His ale breath washed over her when he snored, and she hid her nose under her sleeve to smell less of it. They slept past noon while the bondswoman kept the morning meal warm by the fire.

EIRIK

Thad kann eg id threttanda A thirteenth thing I know

er eg skal thegn If the newborn son of a warrior

ungan verpa vatni á, I sprinkle with water,

mun-at hann falla, That youth will not fail

Thótt han í fólk komi when he fares to war

hnígur-a sá halur fyr hjörum. never bow before sword and be slain

—Hávamál—

THE BURN

The cliffs around Hjalti’s farm laid long shadows over the fields, and the oaks shone more blue than silver under the winter moon. Ice was pushed up in shards along the rocks by the shore and was thick on the bay outside, an unbroken sheet of white from there to the black rim of the open sea. Some of the hay was still out and lay in tufts under the crusted snow, but the ship, a karvi, that Hjalti had built with his own hands, slept under a tent of thick cloth that was tied around the hull with care. Up the field, towards the trees, smoke rose from the farmhouse. The muffled brays and snorts from the animals could be heard through the timber walls, and were felt in your gut more than you heard them with your ears.

Inside, Gunnhild and the women worked in the light of the fire. They roasted barley for beer and plucked birds for roasting. Smoke mingled with the steam that rose from pots hanging in chains over the hearth, and the dishes that needed less cooking were crowded together on the stones around it. They spoke and drank ale as they worked. Gunnhild went from one to the other to see that everything was done like she wanted. They were nearly done with the work, and there would not be many days until they could greet their friends to eat and drink their way through the darkest days of winter.

The men waited in the shadow of the tree line less than fifty paces from the farmhouse. They wore wolf and bear coats, with sealskin mittens and boots on their hands and feet. The rims of their fur caps kept their faces dark. Their belts were outside their coats, and they had fastened their swords and axes under them so they wouldn’t rattle and make noise. Three men had bows and quivers full of arrows. They stomped their feet softly to stave off the freeze that bit through their clothes, and to have something to do while they waited. When at long last Hjalti came back through the trees, they were late hearing him, and had to drop face down in the snow. They lay dead still while the frost bit their skin, and strained to see under their caps. Hjalti rode to the door. He led the horse inside by one hand; in the other he had a brace of hares and birds for Gunnhild.

It was Horsa who led them. He had been Guttorm’s man well before Eirik was born fifteen winters ago, and thought much of Guttorm for waiting so long to get Hjalti back for all the slights that had piled up over the years. He sent Gisli around the house to see if there was an opening for anyone to get out. They were still brushing the snow off themselves when he came back.

Are there any openings? Horsa said.

No, only that one, and the smokehole. Gisli pushed his cap back on his head.

Horsa sent him a look. The smokehole. The head is thick on that Gisli, he thought.

Horsa felt for the bag that hung from his belt. There were iron nails in it, long and thick with broad heads. He took the axe from his belt and stepped into the field.

Enough of this. Let’s get warm, he said.

Each of his men showed a tight smile, save one, who seemed less eager.

Ingolf, are you with us? Horsa looked over to see how he was.

Ingolf wore better furs than any of them, and his weapons were very good for a youth of his age. He was Guttorm’s son.

I am. Ingolf looked to Horsa and showed him his killing face.

Horsa nodded to Ingolf. Then he waved them forward.

They walked softly to the farmhouse and were soon lost inside the darkness under the walls. Horsa took Ingolf with him to the door. He gave him the bag with the nails.

Have these ready when I ask, he said.

Ingolf nodded, and stood by Horsa. The three others spread out in the farmyard so there was no way around them, and kneeled an easy bowshot from the door. Horsa got his torch going with his fire kit, and they touched the others to it. The rags around them were dipped in whale oil. They caught slowly before they lit the farmyard with yellow flames.

Hjalti was getting warm by the hearth. He had his fur coat off and stretched his arms and legs after the ride. He had brought the last birds and hares Gunnhild had asked for. She had the first hare nailed to the roof pole and used a knife with a thin blade to get under the skin. The hare was frozen from hanging in the trap and was easy to work with. Once the skin was off, Gunnhild cut the hare in pieces to boil the meat off the bones. She minced it into the broth that thickened over the fire from the barley flour she had in it. She put pig fat in the bowl together with herbs, onion, and salt. It would set when it got cold, and be almost like a cheese. It was a good dish to have with bread at the Yule breakfast.

Hjalti drank slowly from his ale. His mind was on the year that was before them. He would be away with Eirik for many moons to trade spring lambs and calves on the coast, and before that he had to deal with Guttorm. The only thing was how, and it was on his mind. Gunnhild called now.

Husband, can you lend me your strong hands? She stood by the table with flour on her cheeks.

Yes, my hustru∂. He walked to her and laid his hand on the small of her back.

Knead this until it feels smooth between your fingers. I think you know how to do that.

Hjalti smiled with pursed lips and folded up the sleeves of his tunic. He pulled with his fingers to make smaller pieces of the hare, and kneaded the fat and the meat together with the herbs. He already had the taste in his mouth. He took the cloth Gunnhild handed him, put the meat-dough on it, and folded the cloth around the lump. He twisted the water out of it, and flattened it into a round loaf before he put it on the table to set.

Shaking from fever Eirik was under the covers in the bed nearest the hearth. He felt his body shiver even with the bearskin and wool blankets over him. He coughed. Only his nose was over the cover, and he could see his sister Svala look to see how he was. She went to the hearth and poured hot milk into a cup, and sweetened it with a spoonful from the honey jar. She sat down by him on the bed.

Eirik, drink a little. She put her hand on his forehead. She blew on the milk and held the cup to his lips.

He drank in small mouthfuls and laid his head down again.

She looked at him and hardened her face. You can’t be my brother if you don’t pull yourself together. She ruffled his hair and grabbed his chin.

Eirik tried to fight her, but he was weak and she squeezed his mouth together so he looked like a fish.

Come on, you little shit. Show some strength. Are you just going to lay there until all the work is done? She laughed at him, and bent down to lay her cheek against his forehead. Come on, little brother. Break this fever.

I’m sick. Get your claws away from me. He tried to look hurt, and steeled his eyes at her.

Fine. No more milk with honey for you. She kissed his head and got up.

Eirik lay back on the pillow. He drew breath through his parched lips and faintly heard the talk around the hearth. His eyelids felt hot when he closed them. He lifted his head to see the food and drink they made, and thought that soon he would feel better so he could sit with them and have his share of it. He drifted back to sleep.

When Hjalti heard the first hammer blow he thought Gunnhild was nailing another hare to the roof pole, but she was plucking a bird and looked at him when she heard it. He froze when he heard it again. It came from the door. Hjalti swore and found his weapons. He heard the axe hammer strike hard against the doorframe, and inside his mind he could see the nails sink into the wood. His thoughts ran together in a blur. He had to stay himself in the middle of the hall so he could think.

No Yule pig for Hjalti. No beer, no mead. So save what you can.

He ran to Eirik and shook him. Get up. We have guests. Get up now.

Eirik barely stirred under the bearskin.

Now Eirik. Get up. There is no time! Hjalti shook his shoulders hard and pulled the blankets off the bed while more hammer blows landed on the doorframe.

Eirik rolled off the bed and sat with a dazed look. He fought his weakness and got up.

Eirik dress warm, get your axe and dagger. Mittens. Coat. Everything you have. Hjalti was by the door. He held his axe while he listened outside.

Eirik flung the chest open to find his things, and began to dress. He was ready now, in winter boots and sealskin mittens, his dagger in his belt. He stood on his feet as best he could with his axe in his hand, and heard the fear in his father’s voice.

Gunnhild came to Hjalti’s side with a bow and a handful of arrows. Her face was set and her eyes wide open.

Gunnhild, get the horse. Take the smallest fishing net and make a sling of it. Put it around the horse and get Eirik inside. When the door gives I go first. Gunnhild, you go next. Run with the horse. Let it go when you see a man to fight. Eirik, when you are out cut yourself free. Then get on the horse. Go to Skule if you can. Svala, you go last, after most of these dogs are dead or hurt. Find Eirik after you are out, and Eirik look for her. Maybe you can get away together.

Svala had her coat and boots on, and stood looking at Hjalti. He put his hand on her cheek.

My daughter, he said.

Eirik got into the net. The knots on the thin ropes bit into his skin.

Smoke drifted from the walls now and choked the air. Hjalti went to work on the door with his axe. He struck hard blows near the frame to loosen the nails. The fire had gotten hold of the tarred timbers, and the first flames licked the wood on the inside. The room got lighter and the smoke rose from the boards like a wall of steam. The horse bucked with fear when he smelled the smoke. His coat twitched. He stomped the floor with his hooves and flashed the white in his eyes.

Hjalti threw himself against the door, and it almost came loose from the nails. He took three steps back and threw his weight on it again and now it staggered out. It crushed the snow as it fell, followed by Hjalti who stormed into the half-light with his axe held across his chest. He had not taken three steps before arrows doubled him over and filled his mouth with blood. While the men outside restrung, Gunnhild whipped the horse through the doorframe. It bolted and ran with the bundle dragging behind it. She sank to her knees beside her husband, and sent an arrow into the leg of a dark shape that stormed towards her, and the next found his gut. He went down with a shout of pain and shock. The men outside swore and hunkered down, and Gunnhild heard them and sent an arrow into the throat of the black shape that came from the darkness. She restrung and looked to find another man to kill when Horsa came out from the shadow and rammed his axe down where her neck met the shoulder. She had no time to scream.

The horse was through the ring of men, and it ran hard to get away from the fire and the pain of the rope. It crossed the edge of the field and bounded out on the ice where the river widened into the bay. By the far bank, the ice was weak from the moving water, and the hooves sank through. The ice broke and Eirik was under. The freezing water burned his body worse than any fire he had ever felt. He tried to keep his head like he knew from Hjalti.

You will die now, if you don’t keep your head.

Fysti was in a frenzy now, and was kicking hard to get out of the stream. The water was muddy from it, and in the thick darkness Eirik felt his way to where the net lay bundled to make the sling. He held on while he jerked with his right hand to get the dagger out, and then he had it in his hand and he laid the steel against the sling and cut hard, then there were only a few strands and he was through. He felt Fysti come free. The net went limp, and he began to cut through the cords in it while his lungs begged for air and began to breathe madly inside his chest. With a last cut he got his shoulders through and then the legs. He let the net drift downstream, stepped up on a shelf and kicked himself up. His head was out of the water now, and he gasped and sucked the air in long draughts. It was colder than the water and stung him and made his lungs hurt. His boots slipped on the sand as he waded through the black water. He got up on the bank. The freeze dug under his skin and fought with his mind. He shook himself and opened his eyes wide.

Roll in the snow to get your clothes stiff. Let the cold keep you warm. He rolled in the snow. His coat and breeches were hard as boards before he was back on his feet. Let them make the first mistake. Hide first, then go.

He